Back to the Start

You want a poem about comfort? Here

.

Words delivered on accident. What celebrated

excuses made to inquire, claw past curiosity

overflowing in baskets of flowers

curtains moved, eyes peep through, to a home

Sleep beholds temper within us

Comfort rests on lids best closed.

.

Now for word limit.

.

I once knew comfort. I knew it real good. I wooed it under a stairwell. Comfort petted, comfort called pretty. I vowed comfort forever. Until my husband sat me down at the kitchen table to make a decision. I chose leaving, in the end.

.

I would have taught forever. Even after winning the lottery. I would have magic field tripped through the universe. I would have spun and spun and spun under hand crafted flags like that lady on the side of a mountain singing some auf wiedersehen alphabet. If asked, I would have repeated it one thousand times over.

.

But something happened after a Friday in March, and I awoke screaming in a classroom. Now, I can’t remember who or what is responsible for pressing the designator. Because it all imploded into prismatic clouds of glass. Poof. Nothing left. No pieces to duck tape back together.

.

Comfort does not exist.

It goes both ways.

Composed backwards.

.

33